Kitty and the Midnight Hour (Kitty Norville 1)

I had my doubts. Putting Sevilla’s rabid fans and her florid overwriting aside, she got too many details right. The way vampire Families worked, the things they said to one another, the dominance and posturing games that went on among them the same way they went on among werewolves—details that an outsider wouldn’t be able to make up. So, she either did a great job on her research, in which case I wanted to know what her sources of information on vampire culture were, or she had connections. Before meeting her, I half-expected her to be a vampire, or a human servant of one, or something.

“Why do you think your fans are so attracted to your characters and stories? Why do people want to believe in vampires?”

“My books create a world that is enticing. My world, the Bledsoe Family, vampires in general—these are all metaphors for the power these poor children wish they could have in life but can’t because they are so . . . so . . .”

“Insecure?”

“Outcast. Misfit. Badly adjusted.”

“Are you saying your fans are social misfits?”

She touched a bitten-down fingernail to her lip. “Hm, that is imprecise.”

“You have fans who come to you wanting to learn about vampires, wanting to become vampires. They see you as an authority on the subject. What do you tell them?”

“I tell them it’s fiction. Everything I have to say is there in the books. What do you tell them, when people ask you such questions?”

“I tell them that maybe being a vampire isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Have you ever met a vampire, Kitty?”

I paused, a smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah, I have. And frankly, I find that your novels are pretty accurate.”

“Well. What am I supposed to say to that? Perhaps you could introduce me to one.”

I thought about it and decided that Arturo would love to have her for lunch—but he had better taste.

“Why vampires? You write centuries-long family sagas—why not write historical epics without any hint of the supernatural?”

“Well, that would be boring, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, God only knows what Tolstoy was thinking. Seriously, though, what’s your inspiration? Where do you get your ideas?”

“Writers hate that question.”

“I think writers only say they hate it to avoid answering it.”

“Is that any way to speak to a guest?”

I sighed. She was used to being pampered. Dressing room and a bowl of peanut M&Ms with the green ones taken out, that sort of thing.

“I apologize, Veronica. I tend to be a bit on the blunt side.”

She looked me up and down, nodding slightly, agreeing.

The interview wasn’t one of my best. We got off on the wrong foot, and she was entirely too closemouthed to make it work. She didn’t want to be here. Her publicist had set up the interview as part of the promotional tour for the new book. She’d probably done a dozen of these appearances already.

I took some calls and got the expected round of gushing, ebullient fans. Veronica handled them better than I did, but she’d had lots of practice.

At last, like the door of a prison cell slamming open, the show ended and we were done. I pulled off the headphones and regarded Veronica Sevilla.

“Thanks again for being on the show. I know my listeners got a kick out of it.”

I expected her to humph at me, make a dismissive gesture, and stalk out leaving a trail of haughty slime behind her. Instead, she licked her lips. Her lipstick needed touching up. Her gaze downcast, she straightened and took a deep breath before speaking.

“I owe you an apology, Ms. Norville.” Oh? “I was not entirely truthful with you. I have met a vampire. My son is one.”

I had no response to that. I tried to look sympathetic and waited for more.